Chapter 15 #3
Owen takes a deep breath as we come to the end of the dirt road, and he shuts off the car.
“I’m not sure who would be trying to kill me, but I have an idea.
I’m not calling the cops because”—he runs a hand through his dark hair— “because I can’t have them poking around my company.
I can’t lose the money. I can’t lose my charities.
” His voice is so desperate that I want to reassure him, but I can’t.
“I understand,” I say instead.
“You do?” he asks, surprised.
I sigh. “I don’t want you to lose them either. Can we go inside so I can get cleaned up, and you can tell me everything? From the beginning. You owe me that much.”
It’s his turn to sigh as he nods and gets out. He comes around to open my door, helping me stand.
When I get to my feet, I sway a little and threaten to topple. Owen grabs me around the waist and steadies me.
“Low blood sugar and drop in adrenaline aren’t a good combo,” I mumble, allowing him to hold me up and walk me to the house.
I finally notice my surroundings. We’re in the middle of the woods. It’s dark under the canopy as the sun is still low in the sky. There’s a bark path that leads from the dirt road up to a tiny wood cabin. A large porch encircles the whole house, and a stone chimney is visible above the roofline.
“It’s my father's house. He doesn’t come here anymore. Not since my mom died,” Owen offers while he watches me take in my surroundings. He’s still holding tight to my hips, and I can’t help but sink further into him.
Instead of helping me walk, he sweeps me up in his arms like I weigh nothing. I let out a rush of air and tense.
“Felt like you might topple over. Figured this might be an easier way to get you inside,” he says as a way of explanation, but I’m not complaining. I’m too tired and overwhelmed.
He carries me into the house and sets me on a large brown leather couch by an old wooden fireplace covered in rustic stone.
Grabbing a blanket from a basket next to the couch, he covers me and pulls out some kindling and a lighter from another basket beside the fireplace. Before I know it, he has a fire roaring.
When he finally faces me, I can do nothing but blink up at him. We stare at each other for a moment, neither of us apparently knowing what to say. I can’t read his face, but his eyes feel sad. But there’s something else there, too—something I don’t want to think about.
His stare suddenly makes me too hot, and I throw off the blanket, making to stand and go clean myself up when he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“I know you’re tough, Miss Riley, and I also know you’ve been on your own for a long time. You can take care of yourself, but for once, please let me help you. I need to.” There is desperation in his voice, and my throat tightens while I swallow.
“The best part of this house is the tub,” he continues. “I’ll run a bath for you so you can clean yourself up. I have some clothes here. I’m the only one who uses this place.”
I suddenly want to know why he’s the only one. Why does he come here at all? I want to know everything about him, and not because we almost died, and not because I’m supposed to find evidence that will lock him up for life.
I want to know. To know him. And I have no idea what to do with that.
Sitting there like an idiot, I just stare at him. He continues, “I’ll make you something to eat while you bathe, and once you’re fed, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
I nod because I don’t know how else to respond.
He reaches for my hand, and I take his. Instead of pulling me to my feet though, he scoops his arms under mine and lifts me again.
This time, I don’t tense—I melt. I let my head fall into the crook of his neck and breathe deeply.
The subtle scent of sweat and pine hit my nose, and I practically moan into his skin.
His breath halts at the sound, his muscles stiffening almost imperceptibly, but he continues to the bathroom as if nothing happened.
Setting me on a plush carpet in the center of a huge bathroom, he walks to the porcelain, free-standing tub under a large window that faces the redwood forest. The tub is big enough for two people—that doesn’t go unnoticed.
He turns on the spout and tests the temperature with his hand. I watch him with curiosity and something else I can’t, or won’t, name. I chalk the intense feelings up to being shot. Again.
As the tub fills, he walks back to me and crouches down. He studies my tired, and likely scratched, face. “Do you need me to help you get undressed?”
I can’t read his tone, but it almost seems like he’s uncomfortable. That can’t be. He’s the cockiest bastard I’ve ever met.
I shake my head. “I can do it,” I say, my voice a bit scratchy.
He stands. I reach for the bottom of my torn shirt and wince trying to raise it over my head.
Owen frowns down at me.
Switching strategies, I drop my arms, first trying to free my injured arm.
I know I can manage it, but Owen doesn’t wait to find out. He bends over, taking the bottom of my shirt and slips it off my good arm then over my head, and finally he gently tugs it down my injured arm.
“Thanks,” I mumble, fumbling with the bloody bandage.
He crouches, helping me untie it. He’s careful and gentle. The fabric sticks a little to the drying blood, and I flinch as he peels it away from the laceration.
“Sorry,” he whispers. His fingers trace the outline of the injury, assessing it. I close my eyes, not because it’s painful but because the touch feels good. His fingers trail up my arm to my shoulder and halt.
My eyes fly open and find him staring in horror at my scarred shoulder.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How could I have forgotten about my bullet wound? I quickly search for some explanation and land on, “I also got shot when my father was murdered.”
His eyes dart to mine, and inwardly I know that the scar looks too new, but it’s the only thing I can think of as an excuse for its presence.
He glances at the mark and runs his fingers along the raised edges of it. I expect pain, real or phantom, but it doesn’t come. I only feel his featherlight touch. Soothing. Comforting.
When he stops, I realize my eyes are closed again. This time, I open them slowly.
Owen’s gaze pierces right through me, and I hold my breath. I expected pity. That’s most people’s reaction to my past—my visible and invisible scars. It’s not what I find when Owen looks at me, though. It’s more like grief and awe. But that can’t be correct.
“Do you want to take a bath with your bra on?” he asks, and I’m brought back to the reality that I’m half-naked.
I look down at my sports bra and groan when I realize there’s no way I’m getting the thing off without help.
“I can cut it off if you want,” he offers with a chuckle.
“Get the scissors.”
He raises a brow.
“It’s gross, and I want it off,” I explain, suddenly not caring that my fake boss is about to tear off my clothes with scissors.
I want to rid myself of all the swirling feelings, even though I know cutting off a bra won’t do that.
He’s back in less than a minute and helps me stand. I turn so my back is to him. He holds my good arm to steady me and brings the scissors to my back.
He halts. “You sure about this?”
I nod, and he starts cutting. It takes him a little while to cut through the thick fabric, but once he’s done, I let it fall from my chest. It lands on the floor in front of my feet.
Owen takes a step back. “I’m assuming you don’t need me to cut off your pants, too?” There’s that familiar undertone of amusement in his voice, and I find myself smiling.
“I think I can manage from here, thanks,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.
He doesn’t move right away; his gaze is caught on me. I try not to shiver as his eyes roam across every inch of exposed skin.
“Ok, then”—he coughs—“don’t drown.” With that, he turns and practically races out of the bathroom.
I laugh to myself. Owen doesn’t easily get flustered, and a few inches of exposed skin had him hightailing it out of the bathroom.
After pulling down my pants with one hand, I step into the warm water. It stings my arm and all the minor scrapes from the branches, but eventually I relax into the warmth and close my eyes.
I try not to think of the mess I’m in. Instead, my mind drifts back to Owen, to thoughts I most definitely shouldn’t be having. But the alternative is worse, so I indulge myself.
I think of the things I’ve learned about him. His kindness, his smugness, his humor, his ability to weasel his way into my thoughts, and his eyes. The way he looks at me…
The click of the door has me coming out of my thoughts, and I snap my head toward the sound, my breathing far too rapid for a peaceful bath.
“Sorry,” Owen says as he reaches inside and places a towel and clean clothes on the floor. When he closes the door, I lean back, sinking my head beneath the warm water.
Fuck.